 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
292
WHAT IS POETRY?
It is the common light passed through a lens,
Drawn to true focus and diviner heat;
The larger heart where many lesser meet
In fuller pulse of life and finer sense;
The wide-eyed sympathy, full recompense
For fine-strung nerves and heart too quick of beat;
The love which graspeth all and maketh sweet
The Bitter, which nor gives nor takes offence.
It is the rainbow on our mortal tears,
Which falling through it turn to gems of price;
The perfume of our youth, embalming years;
The innocence of Love's first Paradise.
It is the eye that sees, the ear that hears,
Of our else deaf and blind Humanities.
Drawn to true focus and diviner heat;
The larger heart where many lesser meet
In fuller pulse of life and finer sense;
The wide-eyed sympathy, full recompense
For fine-strung nerves and heart too quick of beat;
The love which graspeth all and maketh sweet
The Bitter, which nor gives nor takes offence.
It is the rainbow on our mortal tears,
Which falling through it turn to gems of price;
The perfume of our youth, embalming years;
The innocence of Love's first Paradise.
It is the eye that sees, the ear that hears,
Of our else deaf and blind Humanities.
It is the atmosphere which, round all things
Diffused, expands, enlarges, raises all;
Sets Man on, as it were, a pedestal,
Like tiptoe Mercury, and fans his wings
With airs from heav'n; shakes off the dust that clings
Around us, making high, majestical
Man's weekday action, rhythmic, musical,
As keeping step with some far voice which rings
Out clear, “Excelsior!” It is the far
And stretch'd perspective which with heav'n doth blend,
Making this Now and this Familiar
So small, which, like dove from the ark, doth send
The Soul forth still on quests oracular,
The last flight unreturning, without end!
Diffused, expands, enlarges, raises all;
Sets Man on, as it were, a pedestal,
Like tiptoe Mercury, and fans his wings
With airs from heav'n; shakes off the dust that clings
Around us, making high, majestical
Man's weekday action, rhythmic, musical,
As keeping step with some far voice which rings
Out clear, “Excelsior!” It is the far
And stretch'd perspective which with heav'n doth blend,
Making this Now and this Familiar
So small, which, like dove from the ark, doth send
The Soul forth still on quests oracular,
The last flight unreturning, without end!
| Stones from The Quarry | |